The Taste of Chocolate
by Dlvvanzor
Summary: Mello loved chocolate. This, hopefully, was news to no one, because anyone who spent more than a few seconds in his presence would notice the way he treated the confection. MelloxMatt oneshot, Matt POV. Fluff and language.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note. *Sniffle.* Nor do I own Matt and Mello. *Additional sniffle.* Or chocolate. *Hits the ground and weeps***

**A/N: Sorry if this fic makes you want chocolate... Haha, I should have posted this during lent, just to be a dick. XD**

Mello loved chocolate.

This, hopefully, was news to no one, because anyone who spent more than a few seconds in his presence would notice the way he treated the confection. Or, more specifically, the fact that he treated it better than any living person, often including his lover, me.

If you were to tell a roomful of people who know Mello that Mello likes chocolate, every single person in the room would wait for you to finish your sentence. If that's all you had to say, they would stop and stare at you, wondering why you felt the need to announce something that was so painfully well-known. Saying that Mello liked chocolate was like saying that Mello had hair, had two legs, was gay, or had a huge burn on his face. Unbearably, incredibly, blindingly obvious.

Mello knew all the different types of chocolate off the top of his head, and he could rank them by any criteria you asked for. Color, taste, texture, packaging aesthetics... He knew the current market price for every single brand, even the ones that weren't available in whatever country he was in at the time. He would eat any kind of chocolate in any condition- even freezer-burned Hershey's was acceptable despite the fact that, in his life, he had had the most expensive and freshest kinds of chocolate several times over. There was literally nothing chocolate-related that he had never tried. This included chocolate-flavored body paint. That was an insanely pleasing two hours, when he licked every inch of it off of me, let me tell you.

He was incidentally very easy to shop for. Give him chocolate, and he immediately loved you forever. In fact, that was how I initially got his attention. When, at fourteen, I finally decided that I wanted him _that_ way (after I managed to accept the fact that I found my male best friend to be the sexiest creature on the planet), I just bought a small box of fine chocolates from the most expensive place I could find, walked up to him, put the box in his hand, and told him I loved him.

He looked at the chocolate, looked at me, and then grabbed me by the shirt and dragged me into him for a kiss.

Now, that had probably been coming for quite some time, but it was undeniable that the chocolate was a catalyst. Thus, chocolate is good.

I knew he loved me then, because we ended up in bed (yeah, I know, shut up, you'd be easy if it were Mello, too) and his chocolate actually went unattended for the entire event. Even after we finished up, when he could easily have let go of me to reach for the chocolate, he held me all night.

That was another thing about him. For whatever reason, the one thing he loved more than chocolate was me. I mean seriously. If Mello had a superpower, it would be the ability to make chocolate spray from his hands. Exactly like Spiderman. And it would be epic. (Dear sweet holy Zelda, Mello in full-body spandex...) And yet, that was not the only time he ever picked me over chocolate.

And that's just beautiful. Chocolate is the thing he loves the most, but he loves _me_ more. Just like how there's nothing more important to me than him. I'd quit smoking for him, I'd give up my fandoms, I'd never touch another video game. I'd do anything for him, with absolutely no exception. None.

He knows everything about me, and he still loves me. Just like how I know everything about him. We have no secrets from each other. Besides being impractical, it would just hurt too much. He's all mine and I'm all his. We own each other completely and there's nothing about him that I don't want to know. He could tell me that he goes to a cross-dressing strip club every Thursday night and performs for a small fee, and I'd not only be fine with that, but I'd be at his next show. He could tell me that he had hunted down our Wammy's friend Igloo and shot him in the brain forty-seven times, and I'd mourn Igloo's passing but it wouldn't even _occur_ to me to be mad at Mello. He could, completely sober, go out and have a kinky threesome with a girl and a guy, and I'd ask what it was like to sleep with a girl. He could beat me to a bloody, mewling pulp, and I'd ask him politely to take me to the hospital as I passed out.

But he would never, ever do any of that, because he loves me.

And that- _that_- is a fuckin' amazing feeling.

I could do anything to him, too. I could tell him anything. And have. Heroin for a while, and he got me clean and stayed with me. I told him about how I seriously considered offing myself when he left me at Wammy's, but didn't on the off chance that he would come back. His response to that was the scream at me until I had repeated "I'm not going to do it!" at least two hundred times. That had been a long evening.

There's one thing I _haven't_ told Mello, though, because he wouldn't believe it and it would be too cheesy even if he _did_.

It is this: that I, Mail Jeevas, love chocolate more than he does.

I can't identify the brand names in a blind taste test. I don't really notice a difference between Nestlé's and Dove. I couldn't tell you the price of any brand, let alone all of them.

But I love it more than he ever could.

Because, quite simply, chocolate is the taste of Mello.


End file.
